


Tonight I Wanna Cry

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Sherlock's in a lot of emotional pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has cried five times in his life. He's cried out of sadness, frustration, helplessness, and regret. But this, this is different. Sherlock Holmes is crying because he is bitterly angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight I Wanna Cry

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write frequently, I just got this in my head and let it flow out of me. It took about 2 hours, and I only read over it to edit it a couple of times, so I'm sorry for any grammatical errors. Not beta'd, not Britpicked. I lived in the UK for a year, but I went ahead and kept most of my American spelling. If that puts you off, don't read it. Title from the Keith Urban song of the same name.

As fas as he can recall, Sherlock Holmes has cried exactly five times in his life.

The first time was out of great sadness, his first experience with heartbreak, when his beloved dog Redbeard had to be put down after a bad spinal fracture. The second time was out of frustration, while he was strapped down to a bed in a rehab clinic. He had screamed at the empty white walls for hours until he broke down, and sobbed for an hour more. The third time was out of helplessness, as he stood on the roof of St. Bart's, and looked down on the only person who had ever really meant anything at all to him in his adult life. He had allowed himself to cry, to feel the impending loss. He had known then, of course, that he likely wouldn't see his best friend anytime soon, and had he known just how long it actually would be, he would've sobbed at his last glimpse of John walking through the cemetery. The fourth time Sherlock Holmes cried was out of regret. He sat and cried as a plane started to take him away from the man he loved, and Sherlock Holmes regretted not telling him. He regretted that John would never know just how much he cared and exactly what he would, and did, give up for the only person that he would ever love in the romantic sense. Sherlock loved his parents, and he loved his brother in a competitive, reluctant way. But, no one would ever come close to being loved by him the way he loved John Watson.

The fifth time Sherlock Holmes cried, it was out of anger. He tore through the flat with tears streaming down his face, swiping papers off of counter tops, and throwing several glass beakers into the sink, not caring at the sound of them shattering. He yelled explicatives as he hit walls, and screamed out in anguish as he smashed the mirror above the fireplace with the iron poker before he lost his steam, and sank down to the floor amidst the shards of reflective glass to let himself cry.

His hands were all cut up, and he could hear the toilet water still running from him trying to flush his phone down the toilet. He was pretty sure it didn't actually go anywhere; it was probably still sitting at the bottom of the toilet bowl. Its screen would be black now, but Sherlock could still picture the words on the screen.

_I'm leaving the country. Be in Paris for 3 days with Mary. -JW_

Of course. Of fucking course John was going to Paris with her. They're "getting to know each other again" as John had told him after Sherlock had cleared up the Moriarty hacker issue, by himself. The video had been sent out by a loyal business partner that couldn't seem to let go, apparently. It was an email virus, set to air the clips all at the same time, everywhere in England. It was efficient, but also ridiculously easy to trace. The case was all over in a little under 3 days, though Mycroft had dragged it out, and as far as the general public was aware, the culprit has not been identified.

John hadn't been there for the case because he had been with Mary. _Probably having lots of sex and telling each other how much they missed each other. How much they love each other._ Sherlock's mind sneered at him, hatefully.

It had been a total of two weeks since he had last seen John, standing on the tarmac, holding her hand, and shaking his head. "I won't be joining you on this one; I'm going home with my wife." John had said, and while Mary's face had remained relatively blank, Sherlock saw the glint in her eyes. She knew that she had won, and this was just the final proof. Paris, the city of love, was beckoning and John had gone with Mary willingly.

Sherlock clenched his bloodied right fist, gearing up to get off of the floor and punch something else, and his gaze strayed to John's chair. John's soft, warm, welcoming, and familiar chair. Sherlock let himself look at that chair, losing himself in all the memories of John being there, John sitting in his chair while typing up cases, or just leisurely sipping tea and enjoying lazy Sunday mornings. It looked wrong now, though. It was empty and cold and Sherlock almost thought about burning it. Chopping it up, and burning it right here in the flat that had once been a home, but now was more of a prison, reminding him of what he once had but couldn't have anymore. Sherlock thought about crawling over and curling up in that chair, but he couldn't make himself do it. John had been the last person to sit in that chair. It still had the imprint of his body, which it had formed from the months of John sitting in it every day. Sherlock closed his eyes, and pulled up a mental picture of just that, John in his chair where he belonged.

It had to have been an hour at least, by the time Sherlock pulled himself from the vision. He wasn't sure what had pulled him out of his mind palace at first, until he opened his eyes and saw the very subject of his torment in front of him.

John was standing in the middle of the foyer, taking in the smashed mirror, the paper-littered floor, and the flipped over coffee table (which Sherlock didn't actually remember doing, but there it is so he must've done it in his blind rage). John's mouth is actually agape, his eyes running over Sherlock's body, which is still curled up amongst shards of mirror, in front of the hearth.

"You- you weren't answering your phone. I thought that- well, I popped over on my way to St. Pancras station. Mary's meeting me there. I thought I should say goodbye, and make sure that you knew that I wouldn't be reachable for the next few days... What the hell happened here?" John's voice started out soft, but it ended on a distinctly stern note.

Sherlock scoffed, the anger that had quelled rising up inside of him again, full force. "It doesn't matter, it's my flat and I shall do whatever I please with it." Sherlock retorted, holding his head high, as if his eyes weren't red and swollen, and as if he were not clearly sitting on the floor bleeding in several places.

John's eyebrows raised as his gaze hardened and his mouth pulled into a tight line. "Right. I should've known that you wouldn't care. Wasted the cab fare for nothing, I suppose. See you later then, and don't expect Mrs. Hudson to clean this up. You threw a tantrum and you can be the one to clean up the mess caused by it." John waved his hand in an angry, mocking, dismissive manner.

Sherlock's face was burning; he was angry, and ashamed, all at once. He stood, ignoring the twinges of pain from the glass digging into his palms. "You should've known? You don't know anything. You don't understand anything!" Sherlock spat out, his whole body shaking with anger. His voice trembled, giving away his barely held composure. "You're supposed to be the one who is intuitive. You're supposed to know people and what they care about but you can't even seem to see what's right in front of you, you're blind to what is _right here_ , and so I can only conclude that you aren't as good of a people-person as I previously believed!" Sherlock stormed over to John as he shouted, his eyes getting blurrier as he got more and more upset.

John's eyebrows scrunched together as the detective loomed over him, voice cracking and face red. It was then, that moment, that John Watson realized that maybe he had been mistaken when he had been interpreting Sherlock's actions lately. John looked up at his distraught best friend, and John couldn't help but to mentally berate himself, because he had been so stupid. So stupid, to not see what this was, and what he suspected had been for a while. He had written Sherlock's recent actions off as petulance, as a child being mad that someone else was playing with his toy but passively letting it happen anyway. But now, standing in the trashed flat, staring at the broken man in front of him, John finally saw what this was. This wasn't petulance, this was heartbreak. Sherlock hadn't been sullen and silent lately because he was being selfish; he was being that way because he thought that he had lost. That he didn't have a chance. This man in front of him was so sure that he could never have what he wanted, that he had never bothered to confirm that theory.

Sherlock saw the realization dawn in John's eyes, and turned away, not wanting to embarrass himself any further. He was humiliated, and heartbroken, and he had ruined everything now. What little contact and interaction that he had been able to have with John lately was surely gone now. Sherlock sighed, his face crumpling in resignation, waiting for John to yell, or scream in disgust; waiting to be told that he is unlovable, and that even kind, patient John can't love him in the way that Sherlock loves John. Sherlock flinches at the soft hand placed on his right shoulder, because that's not what he was expecting at all. He was expecting anger, or mockery, and as John turns the taller man back around to face him, it isn't pity he sees in the older man's eyes. John's eyes are soft, and warm, and almost look like they do when John smiles his real smile, or when he laughs that deep, stomach-holding laugh of his. They are full of emotion, and if Sherlock didn't know better he would almost call it love.

John looked up at his detective, and saw the uncertainty, the distrustfulness. He cupped Sherlock's face between his hands, and slowly, slowly moved up to press his lips to Sherlock's. Giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away, but pleased when he doesn't, John enjoys the warm meeting of their lips, and the small gasp that Sherlock lets out as he catches up and lets himself believe what's happening.

Sherlock's mind was racing, and his heartbeat was pounding as if trying to catch it. He knows this felt real, but at the same time, he kept expecting it not to be. This was never an option, this wasn't what he was allowed, but yet it was happening. Sherlock kissed John back to the best of his ability, but still managed to bump their noses and teeth together. John pulled back and chuckled, and Sherlock's heart dropped, sure that he had done something wrong.

John quickly dispelled that thought though, by letting his hands wander up into Sherlock's dark curls, and huffing out a "Perfect, so perfect. Better than I dreamed."

Warmth bloomed through Sherlock's stomach, and despite the fact that Sherlock knew this could end any moment and there was so much to deal with, like Mary, and talking to John to make sure they were on the same page, and fixing the flat, Sherlock let himself enjoy this. This could end and it was more than he ever thought he could have and he needs to remember it, will remember it until he takes his last breath. Sherlock thinks maybe, just maybe, this might be the last thing he will ever think about, it seems like fairly suitable dying-thoughts-material.

John ended the chaste kisses, and guided Sherlock to sit on the settee. John got out the first aide kit, and sat next to the brunet starting to fix the cuts up, the double meaning not lost on him. _It would take some time_ , John mused, _to fix this_. _But he was a doctor after all, fixing people was his job. Surely it wouldn't be too hard to take that skill and apply it to this situation._ John tenderly fixed up Sherlock's physical wounds, quietly working until there wasn't an open cut in sight, and he had used a half of a tube of antiseptic cream.

Then, John took both of Sherlock's hands in his own, and started to talk. He told Sherlock of his initial attraction, and how that grew into love. He told Sherlock of how heartbroken he was when he believed the detective to be dead, mourning the way a lover would; sleeping with articles of clothing that Sherlock had left behind. He told Sherlock everything, and Sherlock listened. It was just the start, but it was long overdue.

John never did make it to St. Pancras to catch the EuroStar to Paris, at least, not that day and not with the woman using the name Mary Watson.


End file.
